Cold hands
by xxvioletskye
Summary: England's hands were chillingly cold, but it figured. Spain heard rumors that England was ruthless and cruel—a man of no morals, and no God. It wouldn't come as a surprise if his hands mirrored his heart. Unfortunately for Spain, he was to find all of that out for himself... with only memories of the past and his values of love to keep him alive.
1. Captured

**A/N: So I recently got into Hetalia and well, I've fallen in love with the thought of Pirate!Uk and Pirate!Spain :3 It's the only time England seems so badass and seme, and Spain... is always just a sweetheart. I've been RPing Spain a lot that this was almost painful for me to write. Buuut not really. ****Anyways, this has been inspired by various fanarts of Spain under England's control, so I think you know what to expect. This fic contains torture and violence, and *may* contain rape in the future. So please, if any of these themes bother you, you're free to click the "back" button. Full translations are at the bottom. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, AMIGO :D**

**Edit: I changed the summary a bit, because upon writing the 2nd chapter (almost done with it,) I could finally see where I really wanted this to go. Yay.**

**Genre: **Drama/Suspense/Romance(?)

**Pairing: **Pirate!Uk x Conquistador!Spain. Slight Spamano.

**Rating: **R16 (M) for language, violence, suggestive themes and graphic scenes. Drama. Torture. Other things.

~x~o~x~o~x~o~

"D-dios mio... where am I?" Spain struggled to open his eyes, as he felt himself being rocked back and forth-still somewhat dizzy from his sleep. He was lying on an unfamiliar wooden floor, and when he tried to move his hands, he couldn't. They were shackled together behind his back, and his arms were tied to him with a thick rope. 'That bastard caught me...' Spain thought bitterly, as he recalled the previous night's events. The attack. The fighting. The sound of the cannons firing at his ship. He could still somehow smell the gunpowder in his clothes, and hear the sound of steel meeting steel in his ears. He vaguely remembered being knocked out, and quickly tied up and hauled into the cell by one of the other captain's crew members. He was alone in the dark until he finally heard footsteps heading his way, echoing through the halls.

"Rise and shine, 'tonio." A voice came from the railings, as Spain tried to focus his eyes onto the figure across him. It was his captor—none other than the infamous Captain Arthur Kirkland, the commander of the British Empire. "It's so nice to see you awake." England made his way into the cell, followed by a few of his men. It seemed as if he couldn't even visit him all by himself.

"_Desátame ahora, hijo de puta!*" _Spain exclaimed, as the Brit got closer. He struggled against his binds furiously, trying to break free to no avail. His shackles just rattled behind him and he looked up—his furious stare burning right into the light green eyes that looked down upon him.

"Don't waste your breath, I don't speak dog." England said, as he stood right in front of Spain. "You're probably not surprised why I'm keeping you here, but I actually have business with you today." England smirked and crouched down, holding up Spain's face in his hand. "My, the rumors were right. You really are lovely." He laughed, scanning the other man's features. The sun-kissed complexion, the wavy brown hair that framed his face perfectly, and the deep emerald green eyes that shone with a passion, almost made England envious. "And to think I've hated you... all these years."

"Tch. _¡No me toques, cabrón!**_" Spain spat out at England, pulling his face away from the grip. The very touch of the other sent chills down his spine; England's hand was so cold that the floor against his skin just earlier was nothing. But it figured; Spain had heard a lot of chilling stories about the man. He was ruthless and cruel, and didn't live by any code. No morals, and no God. It wasn't surprising if his hands mirrored his heart.

Spain didn't really know much about him; and this was actually the first time he had seen the man up close. The feathery blonde hair, the pale skin, the light green eyes and that certain air of supremacy about him—it was the first that Spain ever got to observe them all like this. All he really knew was that like he—England was an empire. His king's latest orders were to enter British waters and judging from his predicament, it seemed to have been a big mistake.

England slowly wiped away the spit from his shirt, his smile replaced with a tinge of fury. "I told you, I don't understand a thing that you're saying, really." He held his hand back, hitting Spain on the cheek, as the Spaniard let out a small cry in pain. "I will not let you treat me like this on my ship." England said and took a fistful of his hair, holding Spain up to meet his gaze. The crewmen around him started laughing, and cheering for their captain. "Right now, some of my men are searching your ship for your gold. They've covered half of it, but have yet to find any, save for a couple of trinkets and coins scattered around. You will tell me where your gold is, or I will make sure that you suffer."

Spain just smiled and licked the blood from the corner of his mouth. "You hit... like a little _puta***."_

Another strike landed on Spain's face, as England pulled back his hand and struck him with his fist. He pushed his boot against Spain's chest, knocking him down as he ground his heel into the other's sternum. He quickly drew his sword and brought the tip to Spain's neck. "I'd choose my words carefully; that happens to be a word I'm familiar with." He lightly grazed the sharp tip of his sword against Spain's skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

"I.. I wouldn't... be surprised." Spain chuckled, as he struggled against the pressure of Arthur's boot that threatened to crush him. He felt a sharp pain in his neck, as the sword cut through his skin. "I will never tell you where my gold is." Spain smirked despite the threat of the blade against his throat.

"We'll see about that." England said, as he pulled his sword away slightly, and put it against Spain's chest, digging through the cloth. "If you don't tell me," he started, as he slowly began to drag the blade down. "I will torture you within an inch of your life and you wil die. What good will your gold do for you then, Antonio?" With a quick flick of his wrist, the sword slashed across Spain's chest—leaving a long trail of red across his white shirt. The sudden pain made Spain scream, as he gripped onto his shackles tightly; trying to divert the pain. "Y-you bastard! That gold is for the people of España. I would rather die than see any of it your filthy British hands!" Spain said as he felt England's heel over his chest again, now digging into the fresh wound. It wasn't that deep, but it stung, and England's heel against it opened the wound further. He promised himself however, that no matter what pain he was going to be subjected to, he wouldn't waver. That gold, the gold he had worked so hard for was for his people. And without his people, he was nothing.

England brought the sword up to his mouth, licking away the blood without breaking eye contact with his prisoner. It tasted just like any; and he was somehow disappointed that it didn't taste any different from his own. He was almost certain that someone like Spain would bleed something sweeter.

England quickly put the sword back to its hilt and he snapped his fingers at his men. "Untie this gentleman and if you would so please, disrobe him down to his undergarments. Leave his hands tied though, and chain him up in the corner." He said, as he removed his foot from Spain's chest. "And oh, can one you retrieve my _cat, _please? It's been so long since I got to play with it." He smirked as he watched his men huddle around Spain.

_"Quítame las manos de encima! Voy a matarlos a todos si es la última cosa que haga!****" _Spain exclaimed as two men handled him roughly, undoing some of his binds. One of them gripped him by the hair and the arm, as the other worked with the knots behind his back. The rope had dug into his skin so deep that removing them left cuts across his arms. Spain kicked and flailed trying to escape, as his shirt was ripped off of him—the cool air in the cell made him shiver. His eyes flew open as he felt hands grope him discreetly in places he was not meant to be touched.

"Just look at the arse on this one." One of England's men put his hand over Spain's ass, and rubbed over it with his fingers. The feeling made Spain's skin crawl. The other man followed suit, and squeezed it, the hands eventually snaking their way to the front. "_D-deje que hijos... de puta!*****_" Spain shouted, as he gritted his teeth. The men had him in their grasp, and he couldn't do anything to fight back.

England just laughed.

"All right, all right that's enough. Just tie him up already, I'm getting excited." England said, addressing his men. He rubbed his palms together as he watched the half-naked Spain be chained up in the corner like an animal. Now, all he needed was his _cat._

Spain groaned as he was made to kneel, his wrists bound to a metal ring in the corner of the room. He balled his fists and sighed, thinking of what lay ahead for him. _What on earth is that British bastard talking about when he mentioned a cat? _Spain thought as he looked back, and watched England wait eagerly for what he asked to be fetched. Whatever it was, there was no way it could be good. The smile on that devil's face, said it all.

"Do you have pets, Antonio?" England asked as he slowly approached Spain, trying to make contact. "I am personally not fond of animals, but this is an exception." He snapped his finger once again, and one of his men handed him something that looked like rolled-up cord. England brought it into clear view, and dangled it in front of Spain's face. It was a whip.

"So I lied, it's not really an animal but it's something we the British call the _Cat o' nine tails. _It's a recent innovation, really, and I'm proud of it." He brushed through the strips of leather with his fingers, as he watched Spain's expression. "Nine knotted thongs of cord... just how much damage can it do, I wonder?"

Spain looked at the device, and his stomach churned inside him. There were floggings in España, yes, but the whips they used were not nearly as intimidating as the one being held before him. He closed his eyes and started uttering a silent prayer, letting the Lord help him decide what to do.

"Last chance, Antonio." England said as he crouched down, lifting Spain's chin up with the handle of the whip. "You tell me where the gold is, or I swear to God I will hit you with this until your throat gives out from screaming." His eyes were serious as he stared into the dark green eyes that held emotions he couldn't seem to decipher. Was it fear? Hate? Both? He waited patiently for his captive to answer.

"Do what you will." Spain said, as he stared back at England's unforgiving gaze. "I am not afraid of that, and I am not afraid of you. You are nothing but a coward, and you're right. That thing is not an animal as much as his owner is." he smirked, as he watched England stand up and shake his head in disbelief. There was no way he was backing down to this _hijo de puta. _

"You call me an animal while you're the one chained up like that?" England laughed, as he removed his gloves and handed them to one of his men. "Don't be absurd. We'll see who'll be screaming like an animal once I'm done with you."

Spain looked to the front and gripped tightly onto his shackles, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. _Antonio... don't be weak now. _He thought, as he steadied his breathing. _Think of your homeland, España. Think of the constant sunshine, the overflowing wine... the carnations, and the meadows. The bullfights, yes even those really entertaining rowdy events that you only pretend to like. Think of the sound of the guitar playing, and flamenco in the moonlight. Think about your friends. Francis and Gilbert and..._

Spain felt a tear roll down his eye, as the image of a certain brown-haired tomato-loving boy crossed his mind. He remembered the times they shared; the way he'd tuck him in bed every night, the way he would sing him Spanish lullabies and tell him stories. He remembered how his curl would stand up just right, and how angry he would be when Spain would teasingly pull on it, or even accidentally brush against it. He remembered his green dress that made him look like a girl at first sight. He remembered his promise—that he would return as soon as possible with all the tomatoes money could buy. Spain missed him, and a pain grew in his chest, the more he thought about him. His cursing, and his shouts, and his fits. Everything. Most especially how beautiful he looked, whenever they took a stroll out under the stars at night.

_Oh Romano... how long has it been?_

Spain blinked away his tears as he shook his head, and closed his eyes, picturing him once again. Instead of thinking of the past, he chose instead to think of the future... How happy Romano would be once he was out of here, and he can happily hold him in his arms again. He drew strength from that as he readied himself for whatever pain was to come his way.

_Romano. Just think of Romano._

* * *

Translations:

* Untie me now, you son of a bitch!

** Don't touch me, you bastard!

*** Bitch

**** Get your hands off me! I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do!

***** S-stop it you... sons of bitches!

* * *

**A/N: That's all for now :D Cliffhanger! Well, not really. This was my first time to write something not fluffy and romantic, so I hope I did okay D: Reviews would be highly appreciated so that I can make the next one faster. If you have any suggestions, feel free to tell me. And yes, I feel like a sadistic monster but ehh it had to be done D:**


	2. Red

**A/N: I can't believe I finished this within the week XD Although I might take a break from this and write something more... fluffy in between. Anyways, sorry for the bad translations, if ever. **

_~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

England lightly grazed the end of the whip against the floor as he gently swung his wrist, trying to gain the proper momentum. Before he could even strike, he stopped; hearing a curious sniffling noise coming from right ahead. "Are you... are you _crying?" _He quickly handed the whip to one of his men and walked towards Spain, trying to get a better look at his face. Spain had already blinked the tears away, but he kept his face downcast, evading the other's questioning gaze. He knew that England must've thought his tears were in fear, but he knew otherwise.

"We haven't even started and you're already_—_this is going to be fun." England said, turning around to look at some of his men, most of who were laughing and whispering to each other. He used his finger to lift Spain's chin up to look at him, but the other quickly looked away.

_"Puta."_

England sighed and leaned against the wall, still looking at Spain. "You know what, I think I may have changed my mind. I… I don't want to beat you anymore."

Spain's eyes opened wide as he unclenched his fists, and breathed a bit more relaxed. _Why?_ Spain thought, taking in the sudden silence of the room._ Was it possible that England actually felt mercy? _He felt an odd sense of relief as he noticed his hands were already beginning to tremble. He looked to the front then to the side, finally looking straight up into England's cold, sea-glass eyes.

"I'd prefer to watch."

Without warning, a strike hit Spain right across the shoulders as his body tensed up, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. He gripped tight onto his shackles again, as the blows came mercilessly, one after the other.

_"Thwack!"_

The room was filled with the noise of the whip meeting skin, and sadistic snickering from the men. England leaned against the wall, and yawned—watching the torture being carried out. He took pleasure in seeing the other's face twisted in pain, obviously trying to hold back his cries. But he wanted nothing more than to see the other, open his mouth. "Scream for me, Antonio. I know you want to."

Spain's mind was clouded with pain, as he closed his eyes trying to drown it away. His hands had started to shake and he found himself pulling away from the shackles; desperately trying to escape to no avail. He bit his lip until it bled, fighting back the urge to cry out.

_Red. _He thought, as he opened his eyes slightly, looking at the floor beneath him. It was streaked with the crimson hue with every strike that landed. Spain's breathing became heavy as groans started ensuing from his mouth, the pain becoming unbearable. He focused his sight onto the walls and on floor, watching them get painted red.

_Wh-why… does it—Hnn-! S-seem so f-familiar?_

Tears had started to form in his eyes again, and he closed them, letting the tears roll down his face.

_Ah, si… It wasn't... t-too long ago…_

_..._

_~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

"_Romanooo w-what are you doing?!"_

"_Eh? I'm painting! What does it look like?"_

"_Yes but… t-the walls… I just left you alone for a little while, and then—"_

"_I-I know… I was just about to clean them… after I finished."_

"_But Romano, you got it everywhere… Dios mio, the carpet, the floor… I don't even—"_

"_I said I was sorry, okay?!"_

"_-sigh-"_

"…"

"_Romano?"_

"…_what?"_

"_What is that you're painting? Is that… -blinks- are those tomatoes?"_

"…"

"_Look, you drew a big tomato and a small tomato… Aww how cute, Romano!"_

"_I-idiota…"_

"_Hm?"_

"_T-those aren't just supposed to be any old tomatoes. The small one is me…"_

"…_?"_

" _a- and the big one... issupposedtobeyou okay?!"_

"_Roma… I…"_

"_I-I know I'm not as good as Italy, but I—ahh-!"_

"_OH MY LITTLE ROMA IS SO TALENTED~ I can't believe it, i-it looks just like me!"_

"_Ahhh! S-stop it… I-I can't b-breathe, bastardo!"_

"_Querido*, you have no idea how happy this makes me!"_

"_Ah-l-let go… it's just a p-painting!"_

"_No. I'm not letting you go after that~"_

"_Eh? Why not t-that's enough!"_

"_No."_

_"-sigh-"_

_"..."_

_"S-spagna...?"_

_"Si?"_

_"Are you still angry at me?"_

_"Hm? What are you talking about, querido?"_

_"T-the paint... I..."_

_"Don't worry about it. The walls actually kind of looks good like that. -laughs-"_

_"Really?"_

_"Ehh... not really, but I'll do something about it."_

_"O-okay."_

_"-sigh- I can never be angry at my-little-tomatito~ -taps nose-"_

"_And just what are you? My tomato bastard?"_

"...S_i."_

"_Eh?"_

"_As long as I'm yours… I have no complaints."_

"…"

"…"

"…_idiota."_

_~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

"Enough."

The room was dead quiet save from Spain's labored breathing, and the faint clinking of his chains once the last blow was dealt. England walked towards Spain, his boots clacking against the wood.

"Ah_—_!"

England quickly threw Spain's head back, tightly gripping onto his brown mane.

"What's so funny?" England demanded, glaring into Spain's eyes. There was no way he was just imagining it_—_for the past few moments Spain had been smiling like nothing was wrong in the world. He wasn't grimacing in pain or scowling in anger as what England would've expected. The bloody bastard was _smiling_."How could you... how could you just smile through all that? Do you go that far... just to _mock_ me?" England looked around him, and surveyed the damage. Blood was everywhere_—_on the floor, on the walls, and as he lifted his foot he noticed some had even splattered onto his boot. The man he was holding by the hair was trembling violently; his legs looked like they were about to give out at any moment. England looked over at his back and even cringed a little bit, seeing the mass of red welts and ripped skin covering his body. He couldn't imagine for himself how much pain that must have been, and he had no plan on wanting to. _How did he manage to do that? Has he... has he finally lost it?_

England pulled Spain's head back even further, demanding an answer. But even that didn't wipe the slight curve off Spain's lips.

"A-arthur..." Spain started, as he tried to get his words in between breaths. "I- I take it... y-you aren't... much... much of a... bible fan...are... you?" he looked up at England, meeting the furious gaze.

"Pardon?"

_"El odio d-despierta rencillas,... pero el amor... c-cubre todas las faltas."_ Spain said, as he continued to struggle with his words. "Hatred stirs up strife, but love... i-it covers all offenses.**"

England slowly let go of Spain as he continued to look at him, the furrow between his bushy brows only getting deeper. He felt his face turn red_—_whether in anger or in shame he couldn't tell_—_clenching his fists as he tried to make sense of what the other was trying to say. _How could he? _he thought, as he slowly backed away. _Talk of love, and... and hate and the bible above all things... on MY ship?!_ He shifted his gaze from Spain and to his men, who all seemed to be intently watching him._ He talks as if I know nothing of that rubbish of love and offenses and... and how DARE he! I swear to God I would wipe that bloody smile off that bastard's face if it's... if it's the last thing I_ do.

England's gaze turned cold as he looked to his crew man, quickly swinging his arm up as a signal.

"Continue."

"But captain... the_—_"

"I SAID. CONTINUE."

England folded his arms and leaned against the wall, as he angrily waited for his crew man to do what he was told. This was farther than anything he had permitted as far as beatings went, but he didn't care. Spain was going to pay.

England rolled his eyes and scowled, impatiently grabbing the whip for himself. "J-just hand me that!" He took his place and noticed that even the handle was bloodied, and his gloveless hands became sticky and soiled on contact. He waited for the prisoner to say something_—_to beg or plead for him to stop... _anything._ But no such words came from the Spaniard's mouth, and it just filled him further with an anger he couldn't express.

_"Thud!"_

England threw the whip to the floor as he panted for air. He quickly walked towards Spain, unsatisfied with his display of rage. "Where is the gold, Antonio?!" He was bound to tell him now after all that; it was impossible that he hadn't been broken at that point. "You can't hide it from me, forever!" England held him by the hair once again, and shook him, not noticing that the other had turned limp in his grip.

"Captain, the prisoner's unconsc-"

"What are you talking about?!" England started, laughing hysterically. "Look, he's smiling, he's mocking me just look at... him..."

England trailed with his faint laughter as he let go of Spain, and the other limply hung by his wrists.

_No._

He stepped back and put his hand over his mouth, quickly looking away. "Untie him immediately and and leave him here. I-I will be in my cabin." He said as he turned to the door, scurrying as quickly as possible. "And I don't want him touched. At least, not too badly as long as I'm not around." There was an indescribable sinking feeling in his stomach, as guilt hung heavy in the room. He shut the cell gate with a bang, scampering towards the deck.

_I can't believe it... _He thought, as he made his way up the stairs. That whole time the Spaniard was at his mercy and he couldn't even get him to cry out, couldn't get him to speak. He used one of the most painful types of torture he could think of; leaving the other bloody and broken but in the end, it felt like it was _his_ pride that was shattered.

_I had underestimated him._ As pathetic as Spain may have looked, he was still an empire; and obviously there were reasons as to why he had risen to become that in the first place. Capturing him was one thing, but owning him and getting him to bow down to England was a completely different story.

England cursed as he reached the deck, realizing that it had begun to rain again. He looked to the side to see Spain's ship, still afloat and taunting him with the promise of undiscovered gold. But he decided that at that point it wasn't even going to be about the gold anymore. No way. He wanted to break the other nation. Break him down so bad that it would permanently wipe that stupid smile off his face.

And that _smile. _He was going to have to be creative if he wanted to do anything about that.

England gritted his teeth as he pushed open his cabin door, and quickly rushed into his room. He grabbed his rum and slumped on his chair, trying to compose himself. _Really... that smile of his. I... I hate it._ A chill ran down his spine as he recalled it_—_that faint curve of Spain's lip even as he hung unconscious. _How was that even possible?_ As he drank, he noticed something red against the surface of the clear crystal bottle; realizing that blood was still staining his hands. He scowled and smashed the bottle against the floor as he made his way to the lavatory, quickly wiping his hands on a wet towel. As the blood started to wash away, so did the warmth_—_as cold chill of the air started creeping up his hands. England sighed and beheld his face in the mirror.

_I look like I have a _bloody_ smile on my face._

He blinked and realized that blood had gotten over his mouth as well, curving in a slight, satisfied-looking smile. He stared into his own eyes unblinking, and for a moment he was almost certain that he was staring right into the abyss of his enemy's emerald gaze.

"Ah for the love of_—!" _England balled his fist and fought the urge to smash the mirror, as he brought it down to pound on the counter instead. He quickly wiped away the blood on his mouth as well and went back to his room slumping on the bed. He lay on his back and looked to the ceiling, breathing heavily from his ordeal. _I'm going mad._ The howling winds from the storm outside made him shiver, and he tried to warm himself up by rubbing his hands over his arms, and curling up under the sheets. But instead of feeling comfort, his own touch left him even colder, enveloping him in a chill he hadn't felt before.

As England lay there in his bed all night, alone and shivering and unable to sleep; Spain dreamt of being back in his homeland under the warmth of the sun. For once he could freely smile again, with his little tomatito cuddled safely in his arms.

_~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

* * *

_Translations/Footnotes:_

_* beloved/dear_

_** _This is a passage taken from Corinthians 10:12

* * *

**A/N: If there's one thing about me, I can't write anything without putting fluff in it ^^ Kidding. Anyways, I think I finally know where I want this fic to go (that is, if I don't get lazy.) And ooh, I think I've decided to include smut in this in the future. But we'll see. Reviews are highly appreciated because I'm honestly really new when it gets to writing all this serious and violent stuff. It's a challenge! I have to fight the urge to get the two to kiss and make up for the sake of the fic. Hahaha. And that scene with Spain and Romano was inspired by a fanart I really liked. If I find it again, I'll post the link here.**


	3. Wager

**A/N: Chapter 3! This is becoming a weekly thing, it seems. Hm. Anyways, I really want to thank everyone who left me reviews. They really help me out *sniff* And well, this particular chapter is a bit of a build up, so I apologize in advance if it's a little slow and detailed. Everything will pick up after this chapter *u* Again sorry for bad Spanish translations...**

**Edit: Corrected some typos ^^**

* * *

___~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

___"Do it even if you don't think you can...  
And even if you're alone, get up again...  
Because that's what true love is."_

___- Spain's Hatafutte Parade_

___~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

_I'm… alive. _

Spain opened his eyes and found himself lying face down on the floor, with his hands still tied behind his back. A heady, metallic scent drifted up his nose, as he realized that the floor he was lying on was stained with his own dried blood. Even the walls were still streaked with the rusty hue; and it seemed as if none of England's crew had the decency to clean up after what they had done to him. He tried to stand, but a sharp pain would shoot up all over his back with every movement. Amidst all that however, Spain was happy; for the fact that he could smell, and could see, and could feel all that pain meant he was granted another day. He hadn't succumbed to telling England where his gold was either, and it would be impossible to find any of it without his help. There was no way he was letting España fall that easily. Not as long he, Captain Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was alive and breathing.

_I'm so hungry. _The faint scent of food rose above the smell of the blood, and instantly he felt his stomach growl in protest. He had no idea how long he's been unconscious for, and already his throat felt parched and his stomach was hollow. It must've been at least two days since the last time he ate. He pulled himself up on his knees despite the pain, and looked around him to find a bowl of water, and a bowl of what looked like food scraps.

_Gracias, a Dios en el cielo. (Thank you, God in heaven.)_

He bent down and lapped up the water with his mouth thirstily, making sure not one drop of it was wasted. He was thankful that England wasn't cruel enough to give him seawater to drink, or to completely deny him of water at the very least. He went over to the food and realized it was bread with a little meat and gravy. It was stale and there wasn't much, but his hunger made him consume everything quickly, hardly letting himself chew before he swallowed.

Spain sighed once he finished the food and the water, thinking deeply about his situation. The fact that England was letting him subsist meant the other nation was empty with his threats of killing him. England could have easily done that as well while he fell unconscious, but he didn't. As long as England didn't know where the gold was hidden, he wouldn't be able to let Spain die. Otherwise, his efforts would have been all for nothing.

Now, all Spain had to do was find a way to fight back, and get out.

"Did you like the food?"

Spain quickly shifted his gaze up, and instantly his eyes met that of his captor. The other had been staring at him through the bars, with that same unchanging, condescending gaze. Spain used all his willpower and strength to stand on his feet, even before England could enter.

"You flatter me too much, most people completely cringe at the idea of English food. I'm glad I've found someone with the same refined tastes in cuisine, _Captain_."

England made his way across the room and stood face-to-face with the prisoner, close enough for him to feel the other's breath. He put his hand on the other's face, and brushed his cheek with the flat of his thumb, staring straight into his eyes. After two days of rest it seemed like Spain had recovered slightly from the last bit of torture. The fire stayed alive in his eyes, and a smirk still played on his chapped lips.

It was perfect. Everything was perfect for his plan.

"_¡No intervega, escoria! (Hands off, scum!)_" Spain exclaimed, moving his head away. "What do you want? If it's about the gold, you can forget it. You can do the same thing you did last time, and it will only… it will only result in the same way."

"Is that so?" England brought his finger up to Spain's chest, and traced the long cut across it with enough force to get the wound to reopen. He watched as Spain's face twitched, desperately trying to hide his anguish. "Don't worry, I have no such plans for today." He brought his finger to his own lips, having another taste of the blood. It was nice seeing the other clueless like that because what he had planned for the day was something so bad, he had no idea how he could've come up with it himself. He resolved to break the other nation, and break him was what he was going to do.

"If you're really not interested in what I have to say then I should probably just go." England backed away and gave a bow, heading for the door. "I was actually planning to let you talk to your crew, but all right. I'll tell them their captain refused. So if you'll excuse me—"

"Wait."

"Hm?"

"Is this true? Are you really… are you really going to let me see them? They're still _alive_?"

Spain swallowed, and his eyes went wide with emotion. _It couldn't be._ He was almost certain that England had killed them all during the fight on deck—after all, the other was not known to take prisoners. Was it possible that a number of them were still on this same ship with him? "Can I really see them, Arthur?"

"But of course, that was the plan." England said, as he turned around and went back to face the other. "Well, what's left of them anyway. There aren't much of them alive, but I thought you might as well see them before the last of them died." England's laughter filled the room, as he folded his arms across his chest. "Oh and I have a proposition for you; but I'll save that bit for later."

Spain scowled and his gaze shifted across the floor, thinking it over. This was England they were talking about, and there was probably no good that was going to come out of it. But as a captain, he couldn't just deny his crew of their wishes. And in truth, he wanted to see them. He ached to see something, and be with someone familiar for once.

"Okay." Spain said, as he gave a labored sigh. "You will bring them to me here?"

"No, Antonio. I will bring you to them." England said harshly, his hands wandering to Spain's chest. Cold fingers wrapped around an ornament that hung from Spain's neck, violently jerking it away. It was the cross that Spain always kept close to his heart—the very symbol that reminded him of his God and faith, and all that he stood for. Though it was covered in blood, the faint glint of the gold it was made of still shone bright under the soft lamplight.

"Nngh—!"

"Shh. I can't have you wearing this now, can I?" England muttered, quickly pocketing the trinket. "I have something more… fitting." He searched his other pocket and retrieved a black metal strap with a buckle, and unraveled it before Spain.

"It'll show them just who your rightful owner is."

Spain quickly backed away as soon as he realized what he was going to be made to wear. To appear in front of his men wearing that… was unthinkable.

"No!" he exclaimed, trying to escape from England. "_No pongas esa cosa en mí, gilipollas! Yo no soy… un perro! (Don't put that thing on me, asshole! I am not... a dog!)"_ However, the other had gripped him by his shackles, dragging him down to the ground.

"It's not like you have a choice, love."

England pushed Spain down face flat, and crouched, pinning him down with his knee as he struggled. The other man was a lot stronger than he thought even in his already weakened state, and it used up much of England's own strength just to keep him down.

_I can't… breathe._

England's hands were around his neck, pulling the collar against his throat. Spain thrashed around, moving both his arms and legs in all efforts to try and push England off. The leather grazed his skin and he whimpered as soon as England pulled one end through the buckle, fastening it on a little too tight.

"Let's take a good look now, shall we?"

England stood up and held Spain up by the collar, pulling him up to his feet. He tried to get Spain to look at him, but the other kept his eyes plastered to the ground, his face hidden beneath his thick hair. Clucking his tongue, England landed a punch to the side of Spain's face, and another—drawing blood from the corner of his lips. "You will _look _at me when I command you."

But still, Spain retained his ground.

_Preposterous. _England knitted his thick brows and clenched his fists, letting loose with his punches. Obviously Spain didn't know what was good for him. If he didn't act so stubborn England probably wouldn't have that compulsion to hurt him and to break him as much as he did at the moment… well, not as much, anyway.

_Hasn't he gone through enough to see what I'm capable of? Why does he remain so unafraid? _Seeing him just stand there, defying his orders and taking the blows made England's blood boil like nothing else. _Maybe he needs a better reminder as to who he truly belonged to… like a tattoo, or a searing brand like cattle._ England thought, as he continued the attack, driving Spain down to his knees. _Or maybe, he's just begging for enough cuts and bruises for it to be etched into him that every inch of his body... belongs to someone else._

England huffed, trying to catch his breath. He promised himself he wouldn't lose it, but without realizing it, he had become a slave to his own anger. There was something about Spain that got him so unsettled and unsure of himself, that he had no choice but to take it out on a fit of rage.

When England finally stopped, Spain tilted his head up, breaking England's train of thought. He shook his head, and licked the blood off his lips, staring straight up into the storm that consumed England's green eyes.

"Arthur…" he started, with a smile that seemed to be of pity. "You will never be my god."

_~x~o~x~o~x~o~_

The sea was relatively calm as they traveled by rowboat to Spain's ship, along with a number of England's men. The air was chillingly cold however, and Spain shivered as he was only made to wear his undershirt and his pants. It was a relief to be given back some of his clothes, at least. That way, his crew wouldn't have to see the extent of his injuries.

"Excited to see your ship?"

England took a swig of rum, and studied the man before him. Spain was just sitting there, with his eyes downcast once again. He looked like he was lost in thought.

"I know I am." England laughed a little, as he tugged lightly on the chain that was fastened onto Spain's collar. The Spaniard was now on a leash.

Spain kept his eyes down, uttering prayers under his breath. He knew he was going to need the extra strength just to face his crew in such a state. What did he have left to show them? He was pretty sure that his face was now covered in bruises after England's last attack, and he had to suck on his lip to keep it from bleeding. He also now couldn't help walking with a limp, due to the pain of the lashes that covered his body. He looked like a broken man, and he could only hope that his men would still have some respect and faith left for him.

Pretty soon it was time to alight his ship, and Spain felt the weight of everyone's stares; heavier than the chains that bound him.

_"Capitán!"Capitán, ¿qué va a pasar?" (Captain, what do we do?)_

_"Capitán, ¿qué hacemos con el hijo de puta británico?!" (Captain, what do we do with the British bastard?!)_

_"Capitán, estás bien?" (Captain, are you alright?)_

A chorus of familiar voices filled the air, and Spain felt his eyes burn with tears. In some way it was like everything was back to normal; he was back on his ship surrounded by the men who had always been by his side. But at the same time the difference was astounding. Just scanning the deck of his ship made his stomach turn, making him want to throw up what little food he ate. The destruction was extensive. The once polished wood of his majestic ship was now splintered and scratched; as evidence of the battles that were fought there. Blood had also painted it gruesome shade of brown. His sails were still intact, but even they weren't left untainted by blood. The place smelled of rotting flesh and sea scum, and he was fairly certain some dead bodies still littered the deck. Those of his men who were still alive were all bound with ropes, and they looked like they were being starved to death.

Spain couldn't believe this was the same ship he called home.

"Quiet down, you scallywags." England took his pistol and shot to the air, causing everyone to stop talking. All eyes were on him as he held onto the chain that was attached onto Spain's neck. He gave it an abrupt tug, sending Spain falling to the ground with a loud thud, right before his feet. England laughed as Spain's men watch in horror.

"Now Antonio, I mentioned a proposition, yes?"

"W-what is it you... you bastard?"

"How would you like to save your men?"

Spain's eyes lit up with a slight glint of hope upon hearing what England said. Was he really going to give him a chance to save them?

"How... Arthur I..." he started, as he found himself at a loss for words. Surely it was just another cruel joke. Why would his enemy offer him a chance to save his men? Spain looked up and glanced at his crew that were left. There were still a handful of them, staring at him with hopeful eyes. Right there and then, he made it his resolve to do whatever he could to get them out of that hellhole. He knew he was going to be stuck there but if he could at least grant them their freedom, he would be happy. And if they were allowed back to España, he could have them deliver a message to everyone back home. Especially to Romano. He needed to tell Romano that he was alive and okay... at least, for the meantime.

"Don't get too excited, love. Everything comes with a price. Or in this case, a gamble." England crouched down and pulled Spain's face close to his, by tugging on his leash. "I've heard stories about how great you Spanish are with the art of swordsmanship, and I've decided that I want to see it for myself. _La Verdadera Destreza, _you call it... am I right?" England smirked, not dropping his gaze.

Spain was somehow impressed that England knew about it, but he stared at him with an indifference. "And...? What about it?"

"I've always thought it was a shame I never got to personally challenge you to a duel when we took over your ship. So I thought, why not have it now? Especially now that we have a... balanced audience."

_A duel? _Spain felt the familiar feeling of excitement within him as soon as it was mentioned. He had always enjoyed a good fight, especially with skilled swordsmen like himself. He saw it as an art form that was unique to each person who held a sword, and he felt like he had mastered his after centuries of experience. However, the feeling of excitement was replaced with a pang of dread as soon as it dawned back on him what his current state was. He couldn't even stand on his own two feet without being in excruciating pain. What chance did he have against England?

"_Cat_ got your tongue?" England snickered as he pulled on the leash again, trying to get an answer out of Spain.

"If I agree... you will let my men go,_ si_?"

"Yes Antonio, that's what I said. However..."

"..."

"If you lose, you must promise to tell me where the gold is."

"..."

"So?"

"All right. I will."

Spain looked back at his men and realized it had to be done. If he lost and gave up his gold at least, England wouldn't have a reason to keep him in there anymore and he might even be allowed to go back with his men if he was already appeased. It was just like England to do this. Spain knew that England was aware of his loyalty to his word, and if he agreed to this he would have no choice but to follow through on the deal. If he didn't agree however, his men were surely going to die. And he couldn't bear any more of that.

England frowned and shook his head. _Is he really going to go through with it for a couple of measly men? _He eyed Spain once again and surveyed his injuries. He couldn't say that he was in a much better state than he was two days ago especially after the beating he had recently received. _Isn't he aware that he's obviously going to lose? Bloody hell! He could... he could die._

England grit his teeth and pulled Spain up to his feet, making him meet his gaze._ "_Always the martyr, aren't we Antonio?" He held him close to the point that their faces were mere inches from each other. There was fear in those deep olive eyes... but it took a closer look for him to be able to tell that the only fear he could see was not Antonio's. It was _his._

"You know what? I... I don't think I want the gold." England let Spain fall back to the ground and rubbed his chin with his fingers, trying to think. "I'm letting you keep it, at least for now. There's something else that I want."

"_¿Qué es, diablo? (What is it, devil?)"_

"_You._"

England started laughing as he saw the expression on Spain's face change suddenly. He crouched down, trying to talk to him face to face, once again.

"If you lose... I will _have _you in front of the good gentleman here on deck today. And you know what I'm talking about."

"No. You... you couldn't-"

"I _would."_

England's laughter rang on deck, as the Spanish man cast his eyes down, trying to get back on his feet.

"... _si."_

* * *

**A/N: That's it, my loves XD There will be lots of action in the next chapter! Fusososo~ I love Antonio in a collar ;_; And I'm still deciding whether or not I should be mean, or finally give poor Antonio a break. Tell me what you think, si? And. And. I'm getting excited for some smut, as well. We'll see where this goes. Like I said, the pace will pick up after this chapter. Tell me what you think, okay? It might as well affect Antonio's fate. LOL. XD**


	4. Immortal

**A/N: It's finally doooone! I'm really sorry for the late update. -cries- This took forever. Anyways, I'd like to thank everyone who gave me feedback ;-; They helped me a lot~**

* * *

~x~o~x~o~x~o~

England thought back to what had happened two days earlier during his interrogation of the man. All the threats, the severe torture… No amount of either seemed to be enough to get Spain to open his mouth. With his broken pride and shattered hopes that day, England had at least thought he learned a thing or two about the Spaniard. But for Spain to simply put his gold all at stake without even batting an eye, meant that he probably didn't value it as much as England had assumed. But that thought alone was absurd. For the very empire that was built upon circumnavigating the globe in search of gold just to give it all the way like that, didn't make any sense.

'_Is he that confident he's going to win? That bloody idiot! Nevertheless. He might be willing to sacrifice his wealth, but something tells me… he wouldn't be so willing to gamble with his pride.'_

England smirked as he looked at Spain's horrified expression, watching as the other slowly got to his feet.

'_After all, what kind of captain, what kind of man… what kind of NATION in his right mind would risk himself for the sake of a handful of humans?'_

England furrowed his brow and leaned closer, his lips drawing in a sharp breath. His eyes met the other's cool, composed gaze as a shiver shot up his spine.

"_Si._ I accept your challenge, Arthur."

Spain's expression was that of utter seriousness, his voice cold and smooth; rolling from his tongue like ice.

"If I win, you let my men go back to Espana; unharmed and on a boat with supplies to last them for the journey. And if you win…" Spain nearly choked on his words, but he managed to get them out without once tearing his gaze from the flecked green orbs that looked at him with utter contempt.

"My— my _body _is all yours for the taking."

~x~o~x~o~x~o~

Things weren't going according to plan.

Nope, no not at all. Not for the Brit. The fact that things weren't going according to what he'd thought, England was—simply put, at a loss. He had brought Spain there and challenged him simply to prove a point. But with that quick turn of events, he felt like a fool more than anything.

'_Hasn't he lost enough of his dignity already?'_

In truth, England had no interest in challenging Spain in the state he was in at all. What fun was it to duel an injured bloody mess, anyway? He was _the_ Arthur Kirkland, the man who had turned his nation singlehandedly into the empire that it was. He wasn't a coward. He wouldn't purposely engage Spain, or anyone for that matter after having tortured and beaten him up just prior. Not for the simple sake of his gold or defiling him in front of his people (as much as he would enjoy every minute of it), but no!

One look at the Spaniard and you could tell how much of a handicap he was in. There was obviously no way he could win a fight, or at least—that's what England reassured himself.

"So, what will it be, Arthur? Will you lend me a sword, or do I have to get one from my own cabin? I wouldn't be surprised if you've taken them all, already." Spain smiled as he looked straight into England's eyes, trying to prepare himself for the duel. His entire back throbbed, and his body felt worn; but he wasn't just about to give England the satisfaction of having him surrender. Especially not when it was the lives of the men he held most dear were at stake.

England looked around as he was met with expecting stares, all of them waiting for his next move.

'_Bastard.'_

He had no choice but to push through with the duel, despite the sudden surge of fear and discomfort that washed through him. He had no one to blame for this predicament, but himself.

'_Unbelievable. What does he have left? I'd taken his clothes, and given him rags. I'd taken away his cross and given him a collar to wear, demeaning him in front of his own men. I'd conquered his ships and sent them to Davy Jones' locker, or God knows where! After all that, he still hasn't fallen. Where does this man draw his strength? The sun?!'_

Without a word, England walked over to two of his men, taking identical swords. He threw one at Spain, which the other quickly caught. "We'll be using the same kind of weapon. Fair enough, Antonio?" He raised an eyebrow and swished his sword in the air, practicing his swing. His crew quickly cleared the area, bringing along Spain's men further to the edge of the ship. He turned his head up— his eyes cast upon the thick, layered clouds that darkened the sky overhead.

'_That's impossible. The sun barely shines here, at all.'_

England took a deep breath and stood before the Spaniard, planting his feet firmly on the ground. The chill breeze caused his fingers to tremble slightly as he strengthened his grip around the sword's hilt.

Meanwhile, Spain took his own fighting stance as he studied the make and the edge of his blade. He saw his own reflection for the first time against the shiny surface, noticing the bruises and cuts that littered his olive skin.

Instead of being disheartened, he smiled.

'_As long as Romano will still be able to recognize me when I get home, I'll be fine.'_

He swished the sword around, taking note of the weapon's balance. It was a crude English sabre, but he didn't complain. After all, it wasn't the weapon that made the swordsman, but the other way around.

"_En guardia_."

All was quiet on deck, save for the howling of the sea breeze and the swishing of the sails overhead. Breaths were held in utter silence, waiting until one of the two made a move. Spain pointed his blade up to England, keeping his gaze locked onto the other's own eyes, when—

_"Capitán!" _

The stillness was broken with a single cry that rang through the entire deck, coming from among Spain's men. All eyes darted to the edge of the ship where one of the bound Spaniards wriggled his way to the front lines in a desperate attempt to talk to his master.

_"Capitán Por favor, detente. No hagas esto!" (Capitan! Please, stop. Don't do this!)_

Spain slowly lowered his weapon as he opened his mouth to speak.

_"Si? Todos ustedes se queden atrás y ver. Deja que yo me ocupe de esto. Por favor."_ _(Yes? All of you just stand back and watch. Let me handle this. Please.) H_e twisted the sword in his palms, trying to reaffirm his resolve. It weighed heavy on his heart looking his men bound and on their knees, all awaiting their fate. After all, if he failed—their lives would be the ones compromised.

_- "No, por favor, capitán. No hagas esto. Nosotros preferimos morir, lo que ven en las manos de ese hijo de puta." (No, please captain. Don't do this. We would rather die, than see you in the hands of that bastard.)_

_- "Si, el capitán no es necesario!" (Yes captain, there is no need!)_

_- "Capitán, por favor no me hagas esto! No dejes que se salga con lo que quiere!" (Captain, please don't do this! Don't let him get away with what he wants!)_

A chorus of voices rang from Spain's detained men, and he looked up at England asking him to spare him a moment. He walked over to his crew and crouched down, meeting them all eye-to-eye.

_"Mi hermanos, por favor... (My brothers, please…)"_ Spain cleared his throat to keep his voice from breaking. It wasn't easy, but he knew he had to put up a brave face for the rest of them. He smiled warmly—his chapped and bruised lips curving the way it always did, like nothing was the matter. "You have fought bravely for me upon this ship. Now please, let me fight for you in the same manner. The least you can do now is have faith in me. That is all I ask."

"_Pero el capitán—"_

"Shh. I will hear no more. I do not want to hear anything from any of you unless it's to cheer us on, ok? _Viva Espana, mi hombres. Viva El Cristo Rey_. _(Long live Spain, long live Jesus Christ.)_" He chuckled slightly and reached out to one of his men, taking the cross around his neck into the palm of his hand. He kissed it tenderly and let it slip through his fingers before he straightened up, looking at his adversary with a renewed fervor.

England watched the entire thing with a scowl on his face, fighting the urge to launch an underhanded attack on the Spaniard.

"Are you quite done yet, Antonio? My patience is dwindling by the minute. Make me wait any more and I'll kill your men, one by one." The Brit spoke through gritted teeth and shifted his gaze from Spain and his men, as a dull ache blossomed beneath his own chest.

'_I don't understand.'_

Though he could not comprehend most of the Spanish, no language was needed to be able to tell the closeness between Spain and his men. The soft-spoken words, the gentle gestures… It was something he couldn't say he shared with his own crew—even before they had to go out and declare war on Spain's armada. How Spain could be so personal and gentle to them, and still have their respect was beyond him. Seeing it before his eyes was irritating, to say the least.

"My apologies. I am ready when you are."

"About bloody time. And perhaps I should make a new rule forbidding anyone from speaking anything but English on this ship. It's incredibly rude."

"My men will speak whatever they want. This ship belongs to Espana, and it will remain that way."

"Well, this _is_ practically bathed in your men's blood. Is that your definition of ownership, …'tonio?"

With that last statement, both men touched swords—signaling for the duel to finally commence. All but immediately, England launched into an offensive maneuver, in the hopes of catching his opponent off guard.

Spain countered the attack with a defensive technique, parrying skillfully as their blades became a flurry of silver. For one reason or another, he was thrilled—almost to the point that the sensation of pain had escaped him. It had been long since he'd found an opponent with such a strong offensive, taking all his defensive attacks in perfect stride. The sound of the ringing metal was music to his ears, and he danced to it with every step and every swing of his sword. He carefully studied the way England's body moved and the techniques he used, as he himself retreated backwards into the foremast.

England smirked as he watched the wooden beam slowly close in on both of them. He didn't know whether or not Spain noticed that he had purposely led him there to corner him against the railings. He was anxious to see how well Spain would be able to counter his attacks when quarters were close, and there was not enough space to parry, nor thrust in complete freedom.

He continued to force Spain towards the foremast until the other was only a few feet from hitting the wood. The other's technique remained constant—a steady solid defense, despite being slowly denied of space. England's eyes closely watched Spain's footwork for any signs of panic to change direction; and he waited for the perfect moment to make his next move. He lunged at Spain with full force, aiming his sword at his opponent's side.

_Thock!_

The tip of England's sword dug into the wood, but not without grazing Spain with its cutting edge. A thin line of blood was visible on the sleeve of Spain's upper arm, and the Spaniard's face twisted slightly from the pain.

England grunted and wrenched his sword free from the wood, watching as the crimson liquid slid down its shiny surface; dripping down onto the floorboard.

'_First blood.'_

England smirked and followed up with quick, small movements to prevent Spain from recovering from the hit.

"Is that all you've got, Antonio? I'm sure by now you know that y-you're a fool to oppose me."

"…"

"And all for what? _Them?"_

England laughed as he jerked his head towards the direction of Spain's men, without once taking his eyes off his opponent.

Spain let England advance as he waited for the right moment to switch techniques. The sword felt heavier in his wounded arm, but he paid it no mind. All he kept his mind on was finishing the duel as soon as possible, because he wasn't too sure how long he would be able to hold out.

_Heh. I know what you're trying to bloody fucking do. _England sensed the shift in the other's movements though subtle that it was, alerting him of the other's plan. He used that split-second in Spain's shift from defensive to attack as an opening, quickly aiming to hit the Spaniard's shoulder.

To his dismay and shock, Spain blocked it without even flinching. England drew his blade back and repeated the attack, only to be intercepted once again. Nothing seemed to work.

'_El Diablo moves fast.' _Spain quickly stepped to the side and crouched down, raising his own weapon up. The two blades clashed forcefully as he pushed with all his might, throwing England off-balance. He then swiftly drew his sword back and swung down at England's legs, sweeping him off his feet.

'_But clearly, not fast enough.'_

"Nggh!" A sharp pain rippled through England's leg, causing him to lose his footing. Spain's sword sliced clean through his skin—blood quickly spurting from the laceration. '_The bastard fucking got me'! _England bit his lip as he felt the warm liquid trickle down his calf, staining the cuff of his trousers a deep, rusty red hue.

It had been the first he had witnessed the sight of his own blood in a long while, and for a moment, he just looked at it in disbelief. After all, nothing made him feel more human than bleeding straight from his own veins.

Spain didn't waste any moment and swung down again, this time barely missing England's other leg. The Brit moved away and met Spain's blade with his own, before moving backwards to regain his momentum. The pain in his leg caused him to move clumsily, and before he knew it, he found himself at the receiving end of an assault.

The turn in the tide came all too suddenly for England. Spain's attacks came one after the other with frightening intensity and speed, leaving England frantically trying to block or counter them. He was barely able to keep up as Spain's blade swished through the air again and again, forcing him to retreat. England checked a couple of blows before falling back a couple of steps, nearly tripping over his own boots. Another exchange of blows, and he fell back again. Despite his efforts, he couldn't seem to get past Spain's impermeable technique—and slowly he had begun to walk backwards towards the edge of his ship.

'_This can't be.' _England took a moment to look back and see just how far he was from falling straight into the water. The sound of the crashing waves got louder and louder, and all of a sudden, a sense of urgency took over his entire being.

'_I'm going to be made to walk the plank on my own bloody ship!'_

The threat of falling to his death was as real as could be, and the fierce determination in Spain's eyes told England that he wasn't going to be allowed an easy escape. He had to put in all his efforts if he wanted to at least get himself out of the obvious danger. If he were cornered around the bend with nothing but the ocean beneath him, he'd be forced to surrender—something that was clearly not an option. He'd thought that he would much rather die than to ever surrender to his _own_ prisoner, but the closer he got to the brink, the more he seemed to value his own life. But of course, he couldn't let Spain know that.

"'tonio, it must be exciting what you do, right?" England struggled to talk as he continued to push the Spaniard back, parrying against his blows. _"_You travel around the globe; looting smaller countries of all their gold and s-simply taking them as your own…"

Again and again Spain's blade came down on England's mercilessly, and again and again England retaliated, trying to change their course of direction. Despite all that, however, he was still being slowly forced backwards onto the very edge. It puzzled England because there didn't seem to be much force in the blows, and yet he was being pushed back quite easily. There he was, close to tiring out from simply meeting the other's steel with his own but Spain looked like he was just sparring. His entire body moved effortlessly and flawlessly as if it were something he'd choreographed and practiced countless times before.

With such pure speed and technique, all England could do, really was to step back and fend them off mindlessly. He knew that he wasn't going to get through to Spain with his sword at that rate, and he was going to die before he could find a way to best him. If he had any chance of winning he was going to have to be creative.

"It's not as despicable as how you put it." Spain replied, a bit irritated at the way England had described his conquests. It was never as simple as that, and he never simply "took" from the countries that had become his colony. He made sure to take care of them, and teach them all he knew to help them grow and prosper as a nation. They became a part of him.

"That's not what I heard. As a matter of fact, I wanted to take pointers—"

"If I am not mistaken, Arthur, you are using all this talk to distract me." Spain gritted his teeth as he continued the attack. The edge of the ship was close and he knew that if he could force England to it, he would surrender. However, it was undeniable that the fight was already taking a toll on his body. He felt the beginnings of exhaustion and the pain caused by the all the damage he had endured wearing him down. If he was going to end it, he had to make it quick.

"Of course not. When I beat you—and I _will_ beat you, isn't it ironic that I'll be doing what you've been doing all this time?" England sensed Spain's face twitch and his attacks become more barbaric. The holes in Spain's technique were now more evident, as his movements became less precise. England mused that all it would take was a little more taunting to get his enemy to lose control and then finally, he would have the upper hand.

"You make them bow down to you and then you _fuck_ them from behind…"

"…"

"Isn't that how you've earned your name… _el conquistador?"_

"You bastard!"

Spain had had enough. His entire body shook with rage as he went after England one swing after another, setting aside all his calculated maneuvers and techniques. It had come to the point wherein he actually wanted the _hijo de puta _dead as soon as possible—or at least, take with him an eye, or an entire limb. But little did he know that his opponent was a master of brutish combat. With a few more exchanges, Spain's leg bled, and then his side. Through his rage he was unable to feel them—as all he was set on was taking down the British demon.

"Don't… Compare me… to you."

"Heh." England narrowed his eyes and countered the blows more easily, taking minor damage. The strong, unrefined attacks were something he found easier to handle; and all it took was pushing a few of the Spaniard's buttons. But he wasn't stopping there.

"And— a-and that annoying little Italian you're so fond of Antonio, why do you even keep him?"

The two sabres met forcefully as either man pushed with all his might. Their faces were mere inches from each other, eyes staring each into each other's oblivion. Spain winced at the mention of the Italian, and England's lips curved into a smirk murmuring under his breath.

"Tell me… is he any_ good_?"

A deadly rage colored Spain's expression as he drew his sword back as far as his arm would allow him. A loud scream escaped his throat as he hacked violently, sending his blade down at England. The Brit was prepared and quickly shielded himself—but the force was so strong that his blade shattered on contact. The shiny metal burst into tiny little pieces in the air, exploding like glitter sprinkled upon the unpolished wood. England's emerald-green eyes opened wide in shock and utter terror. Without a weapon he had no way to win.

Before Spain could attack, he stepped back and raised his leg, quickly whirling to knock the weapon out of Spain's grip.

_CLINK!_

The sword flew from Spain's hand to a couple of meters behind him, back at the center of the deck. Instead of immediately running after the weapon, Spain drew his fist and punched England squarely in the face. The sound of England's nose breaking underneath his knuckles was the most satisfying thing he'd heard all day, and he watched as the other captain fell back—the Brit's face bloodied almost immediately.

"AUGGHHH—!"

England screamed in agony as he felt the cartilage in his nose smash against his face, the pain sharp and excruciating. Blood gushed from his nostrils, and his eyes burned with tears of pain and rage. He watched the Spaniard turn to retrieve the weapon, as he got to his knees. There was no time to spare.

The Brit didn't take the time to compose himself and quickly lunged himself at the Spaniard. He grabbed a hold of the other's leg, dragging him down to the floor. England crawled on top of his opponent and landed a punch, only for Spain to quickly roll him over in a reversal.

"Get off me you bloody git!" England screamed as he pulled Spain by the collar and kneed him hard in the gut, causing the other to roll over to the side. Spain clutched his stomach as he fell from on top of England, reeling from the pain.

England took the chance and scrambled to his feet, hastily heading for the weapon. It was right there in front of him; only a couple of steps away when he was tackled from the side, his shoulder hitting the wood with a loud thud. "Don't you dare talk about Romano… that way…" Spain was now panting hard, his lungs burning in exhaustion. He dragged himself to the weapon when the Brit reached up and pulled him down again.

The two men struggled against each other for what seemed like hours. They exchanged punches, pushing and pulling each other; desperately trying to get at the sword first. Both men were injured and exhausted as they poured their remaining strength to what seemed like a fistfight to the death.

The match ended when finally, one of them managed to wrap his fingers around the handle—quickly getting to his feet and pointing the sharp tip at his opponent's neck.

"Like I said earlier, you were a fool to oppose me, Antonio." England dragged Spain from the ground by the hair, smiling triumphantly as he threw the sword to the ground. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

England tossed the Spaniard to his men, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

"Tie the bastard up.

* * *

**A/N: And, that's it! Were you guys satisfied with the result of the fight? :D Again I'm really really sorry for the late update, it's just that I'd never written a sword fight scene before and I literally spent days and nights just trying to write and rewrite this. Please tell me what you think, ok? :3 and I'll try to get one out as soon as possible. xD**

**CREDITS: I would never have done this without inspiration from George R.R. Martin, William Goldman, and David Gemmel. They've written some of the greatest action scenes ever, and reading them really helped me with this. Also, I would like to thank my brother, who isn't a yaoi fan but whom I'd managed to read all the drafts I'd written for this entire chapter. Ehehe. And of course to all of you who waited for this after 3 whole months -hangs head in shame-**


End file.
